


Sweetest Downfall

by dismalzelenka



Series: Bard Songs: A Songfic Collection [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age 2
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, F/M, Kirkwall is a Shithole, Songfic, fucking in an alley, songfic trash, trauma trigger?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 06:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13265208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalzelenka/pseuds/dismalzelenka
Summary: After Hawke rescues Feynriel from Danzig and his men, she pays a visit to the strung out ex-Templar partly responsible for this mess to begin with. A few drinks turns into a lot of drinks turns into a fumbling back alley hookup that proves more cathartic for her than she would have ever imagined.





	Sweetest Downfall

**Author's Note:**

> And the history books forgot about us  
> And the Bible didn’t mention us,  
> And the Bible didn’t mention us,  
> Not even once.   
> \- Samson, Regina Spektor
> 
> This DA2 Act 1 crack ship's been docked in my brain for a while now, and the 5am insomnia muse decided it was finally going to hoist anchor and sail into the wild blue yonder. Angst, smut, more angst, and some grimy back alley drunk cuddling that's probably really uncharacteristic for both of them when they're not practically drenched in cheap whiskey and regret.

Samson’s voice was tinged with something sharp and bitter when he finally spoke after four pints of watered down ale and half a bottle of cheap whiskey. _Regret_.   
  
It was something Hawke was entirely too familiar with herself.   
  
“The boy slipped through the cracks,” he admitted dully, slurring slightly into his cup. “Wasn’t thinking straight, been too long without the blue, you know? Ah, fuck, but you _wouldn’t_ know, would you? The blue’s just a tool for people like you.” _Not a crutch._ The words were unspoken, but it didn’t matter because they were written plainly enough across his face.   
  
Hawke didn’t say anything at first. She stared at the bottle of whiskey for a few moments of tense, awkward silence before she grabbed the bottle by the neck and downed the rest of its contents in a single gulp. “He’s fine, though, isn’t he?” she said finally.   
  
He slammed the cup into the table. “Not the point, Hawke,” he growled. “I try to do what I can, right. Think maybe if I save enough of the little shits I can make up for…” He shook his head and waved the bartender over instead. “Refill,” he grunted, holding up the now empty bottle of whiskey. Hawke tried her best not to smirk at the way he was taking advantage of her offer to foot the tab in a way that reminded her distinctly of Isabela. He ran a dirty hand through a mane of thinning brown hair and grimaced, and the next words he spoke rasped out barely over a whisper. “He didn’t fucking deserve that.”   
  
It was plain from the look of agony in his eyes that he was no longer speaking of Feynriel. Hawke wondered when someone had last offered him an ear for this sort of thing. Maker only knew it was something she was patently atrocious at, but his need for confession, for absolution, seemed to overpower her ineptitude at emotional comfort.   
  
“Maddox,” she said simply, and then immediately regretted saying the name out loud. Samson’s grip on his empty cup tightened, scarred knuckles going white with the intensity of the squeeze.   
  
“It wasn’t fucking right.” He spat the words into the air like venom, and when the bartender set the fresh bottle of whiskey in front of him, he seized the bottle like a man dying of thirst and chugged a good third of it before setting it back down on the bar with a thump that was neither gentle nor graceful.   
  
She hadn’t even intended for this night to happen. It had slipped from her mouth on accident, almost as an afterthought, when she’d threatened to skin him alive if Feynriel died. “He comes back alive, we’ll talk,” she’d growled, thrusting her head toward a seedy dockside tavern with a sign so weathered from the salty sea air the name was no longer decipherable. But if Marian Hawke was anything consistent at all, she was a woman of her word, and so she’d dragged herself to this seedy dockside tavern without a name, tunic and trousers still stained with the blood of Maker only knew how many slavers who’d met an untimely end at the blade of her staff that day. He’d already been waiting for her when she arrived, hunched over the far end of the bar with a lukewarm mug of alcohol in his hands and studiously avoiding eye contact with everyone around him.   
  
“You gonna finish that?” she’d asked him, eyebrow cocked. He’d met her gaze with a scoff before chugging the rest of his drink, sweeping the empty mug aside afterward with a scowl. She’d motioned to the bartender, dropped a handful of sovereigns on the table, and ordered another round.   
  
And now they were both deeply and truly drunk, trading stories and regrets with the practiced ease of two friends who’d known each other for far longer than the span of however long it’d taken to reach this particular level of inebriation. Praising the virtues of dirty dockside taverns with cheap alcohol. Cursing the Chantry, the Templar Order, the Circle, and every other Maker-forsaken institution crushing this dreadful city under its heel. She’d just finished a particularly gruesome plan of what she would do to any templar who threatened the other apostates in her circle of friends, and her detailed descriptions of specific acts of violence had drawn a throaty chuckle from a voice long out of practice with those sorts of sounds. She didn’t know who leaned in first, but suddenly they were a tangle of fingers, lips, tongue, and the residual sourness of cheap liquor. No one paid them any mind here, either; another virtue of seedy dockside taverns, she thought with a chuckle that bubbled out against his mouth before she pressed herself into him again, her tongue teasing against his, their teeth clicking together in their clumsy, desperate haste for whatever…connection this happened to be that they both seemed to need from each other.  
  
Then they were stumbling through the doors, arms linked around each other, weaving unsteadily to the grimy alley behind the building, fingers already tugging at buckles and buttons and laces. She fumbled with the ties on her trousers as they ducked into an alcove in the oppressive architecture that was so undeniably Kirkwall in its construction. He pulled them down and hooked his fingers into her smalls as she undid the rusted buckle of his belt and then he had shoved her against the wall, grinding her back uncomfortably into the stone. He tugged at his cock a few times before lifting one of her legs and pushing himself into her, breath hitching when she rocked her hips back against him with a half coherent swear. She wrapped her arms around his neck and dug her fingers into his back for support, savoring the feeling of his weight against her as he thrust into her slickness with the reckless abandon of a man entirely robbed of his senses. She could hardly blame him when she felt much the same.   
  
“Fuck,” she gasped into his shoulder. “Maker. Oh. Fuck.” Her breath was ragged against his ear, her teeth grazing the skin of his neck. She gripped tighter with one hand and eased the other between them until her fingertips found her clit, and she teased at herself with rough, circular motions until she felt a familiar warmth radiating from her core. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she felt a string of unintelligible curses leave her lips. Or perhaps he’d been the one to say them. Most likely it had been them both. Sweat beaded against her brow as she felt her pleasure building, as his motions became jerky and erratic, and _oh blessed tits of Andraste_ she felt herself crash and come undone around his cock, the muscles of her inner walls squeezing and flexing of their own accord as she dug her fingers deeper into his shoulders and buried her face into his neck. He smelled of sea air, sweat, booze, and the unmistakable metallic tang of lyrium, a combination that wasn’t necessarily pleasant but right now she didn’t particularly care because it smelled like _him_ , like the brief, tenuous mortal connection she’d been achingly without for far too many years.   
  
He found his own release shortly after and came in her with a series of noises that was somewhere between grunts and growls. “Maker’s fucking balls,” he gasped incredulously against her when he finally softened and slipped out. “That…that energy pulse thing: do all you mages do that when you’re fucking?”   
  
She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Emotions affect magic, so. Yeah, probably.” She rarely noticed it anymore when she touched herself, the slight exhale of spirit energy that set skin tingling and hairs along limbs standing on end, the small release of power that came with the greater release of a halfway decent orgasm. It had been years since she’d shared that release with another person, and she was suddenly flooded with memories, the sounds of horses, the smell of straw, the shocked look of terror on the face of a long-forgotten adolescent lover. The stammered apologies, the horrified way he’d backed away from her, the brief moment of breathless anguish as his feet stepped back from the barn loft and into empty air. The sickening thud of his body hitting the ground, the nauseating crack of his neck, the dull and lifeless eyes that met her when she finally clambered down the ladder to face the consequences, to face the mess she’d made of being reckless and young.   
  
“Fuck,” she managed to gasp, yanking her trousers back up with a decidedly clumsy hop. Maybe that was the only word she ever really needed in her vocabulary. She had no idea where her smalls had gone, but they were the last thing on her mind, and she knew she had to get out, to get _away_ , to find space to breathe away from one more casualty of her carelessness.   
  
“Not a pleasant topic for an apostate, I wager,” he’d grunted quietly, arms folded across his chest, eyes laden with apologies. “Didn’t think when I asked.”   
  
It took her a few seconds to realize there were tears in her eyes.   
  
“Shit, don’t you fucking look at me like that,” he growled.   
  
“Like what?”   
  
“Like I’m about to burst into fucking flames or something.”   
  
Hawke snorted. “Knowing my track record, I wouldn’t be surprised.” But the tension in the air had eased, and she found herself allowing him to tentatively draw her into his arms. They sank to the ground, still clumsy and drunk and entangled in each other, and somehow, plastered and splayed out on the grimy stone of a seedy back alleyway in the docks in the arms of a man she’d only just met, she felt a bizarre sense of peace descend on her, feeling decidedly out of place among the turbulence of the rest of her emotions. She let her head droop onto his chest, and he cradled an arm around her shoulders, and for a brief moment she thought she felt his lips brush against the crown of her head.   
  
“Maker knows I don’t fucking deserve this,” she heard him whisper, so faintly it had to have been intended for his thoughts alone.   
  
“No one gets what they deserve in this fucking city,” she grumbled back, shifting her weight away from a stray rock jabbing uncomfortably into her side. “Might as well shut up and take the good when it’s good.”   
  
She felt a low, throaty laugh rumble in his chest. “Isn’t that the fucking truth.”


End file.
